


Till Death Do Us Part

by Tigergirl008 (unityManipulator)



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:57:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unityManipulator/pseuds/Tigergirl008
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Based off of the 2012 Saxxy awards entry by the same name, found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9nDtI51ub0I</p>
<p>On tumblr: http://tigergirl008.tumblr.com/post/36008790117/i-accidentally-wrote-a-fic-sorry-more</p>
    </blockquote>





	Till Death Do Us Part

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Till Death Do Us Part](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/13835) by lozeng3r. 



> Based off of the 2012 Saxxy awards entry by the same name, found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9nDtI51ub0I
> 
> On tumblr: http://tigergirl008.tumblr.com/post/36008790117/i-accidentally-wrote-a-fic-sorry-more

Nobody knew where they'd come from, or what had happened to cause the start of this virus. All the survivors knew was that they needed to survive, and all the ones that had died, well, they didn't really have much going on upstairs anymore.  
The virus had started small, when it had first began. Everybody was relatively good at avoiding it, and most stayed safe. However, there were always the few cocky ones that had gotten too close to a body that wasn't, as it had been nicknamed, "Double dead". The first death was when the victim's heart stopped beating, their blood stopped flowing, their brain stopped working. They became a mindless puppet, driven by their desire to infect others, and stopping at nothing to achieve that goal. The second death was when one of the remaining survivors shot it so full of bullets it had no choice but to give up the ghost.  
After the number of zombies was relatively equal to the numbers of living people, that's when the scales tipped. People began getting stingy with their bullets, anticipating a quick fix that would bring an end to the zombie hordes. It was the exact opposite that happened. As more and more living people died, the odds began stacked so high against the living that most saw only two ways out, so they didn't join the undead. Suicide, or fleeing the scene.  
The RED Spy had picked the second option first. Most of his team was dead when he left, however, they had the foresight to die quickly, by their own hand, before they could die and infect others. As for the rest, they could've been dead, they could be tearing flesh off of bones. It was no longer his problem, he needed to keep his own hide safe before he tried to help others that were probably mindless corpses.  
He pulled a faded photo out of his jacket, in the pocket beside his heart. A photo that had been taken back when the war had been between RED and BLU, instead of humans and zombies. If you squinted, you could make out him and BLU Scout's mother, walking down the street hand in hand. She had been one of the first to go, and he had shot her. Each bullet might have been into his own heart, it would have hurt less, but he had shot her.  
" _Mon Dieu_ , is it really worth living anymore? My team is dead, I might be the last living person, and what am I doing? I'm cowering in the woods. Pathetic!" He addressed the photo in his hand, tucking it back into his jacket as he looked up at the sky. Then, his eyes hardened, perhaps spurred on by the memory of Scout's mother's death. He steeled his nerves, and began walking back to what had been civilization, dropping his butterfly knife in the woods. It would do nothing against the zombies, and he wouldn't need it anymore.

When he got back to the old RED base, he climbed the familiar stairs, walking to a room he had never entered before in his life. The Announcer's room. He gently pushed open the door, dropping his pocket watch as he went. No use cloaking. They would find him. But he certainly wasn't going to let them saunter in, no. "They'll have to work to get to me," he muttered, as he locked the heavy doors behind him.  
He walked slowly around the desk, his fingers trailing over the smooth wood. He could hear the undead shambling up the stairs, some already reaching the doors, beating on them with clawed, mangled fingers. Sitting in the leather chair behind the desk, he pulled out the photo once more. He wanted the last thing he saw to be a memory he loved, not the wreckage of the world out there.  
Pulling out his revolver, he thought he heard running footsteps outside, far away. They sounded like Scout's, but that couldn't have been him. Scout was dead. All his team was dead, his mind was pulling tricks on him. Setting the revolver gently against his temple, he closed his eyes and resolved to pull the trigger on a count of five. No more fighting, no more zombies, no more anything.  
One. The doors groaned and creaked, the moans of the undead gaining in volume. Two. The running footsteps got closer, pounding up the stairs, skipping a step every so often in a pattern he knew as a Scout's running. Three. The door's hinges finally had enough, as they fell apart and the undead swept into the room, staggering and moaning. Four. His teeth clenched, and he prepared to squeeze the trigger and end it all, as the running footsteps reached the top of the stairs, after the zombies.  
The sound of a gunshot rang out across the room, followed by a second, and a third. Spy opened his eyes to see that he had been right. It wasn't a hallucination. A Scout was running around the room, shooting each zombie. The last one was almost at the desk, but the Scout was there, and swinging his baseball bat, smashing the zombie's skull.  
The sound of footsteps echoed through the hall, over the zombie's moans, and Spy whispered to himself, "Heavy." Again he was correct, as a Heavy ran into the room, bellowing as he shoved a group of zombies to the ground, each one completely dead. Spy's eyes lit up, in something he hadn't felt since the virus had begun spreading. Hope.  
The Scout and the Heavy had stopped in front of the desk. "We need a bit more firepower, and looks like you could use a bit of a team yourself. You in?" Scout extended his arm. RED and BLU had been enemies for years, and the Spy's instincts were screaming for him to cloak, to sneak behind them and stab them, but he couldn't. The pair from BLU had saved his life. Spy smiled, and nodded. The three walked out of the office, Spy scooping up his Dead Ringer as he walked by. Guess he'd need it after all.

"Now he should be along any second. You know Sniper, predictable to a T." Scout was looking around furiously, making sure no undead were sneaking up on them, but they had been relatively undisturbed ever since they had left RED's base.  
"I know my Sniper, and he's most likely dead. But yes, he always was." A familiar van pulled up and over to the side of the road, and the driver got out. Spy gasped. It was RED's sniper. Scout explained that he'd invited Spy onto the team, saying, "You know your Spy's talents. I know your Spy's talents, since he's stabbed me more times than I'd like to admit. 'Sides, he'd be dead if we hadn't got to him." Spy was staring in disbelief. He had been sure Sniper was dead, that he was the last RED operative left. Guess not.  
"All right, he can come, but he'd best pull his own weight." And just like that, Spy was on the team.

The BLU soldier rushed at his zombie enemies, shouting obscenities and battle cries, brandishing his rocket launcher, a long blade attached to the end. One zombie, then two became quickly acquainted with the stab. As he switched to his pistol, shooting zombies to the front, a lone corpse began walking up behind him, with intent to kill. The Soldier was too distracted to notice it, as his attention was focused on the scene in front. Suddenly, a single arrow flew through the air, in through one of the zombie's mangled ears and out the other. The Soldier turned to look, and the zombies pushed forwards. He looked to be overwhelmed, and the fight would soon be over.  
Suddenly, the decloaking sound rang out from beside a fence, as the Spy ran towards the Soldier, a revolver in each hand, shooting furiously. When the last zombie was dead, the Spy stopped before the other man, smiling. "Need a hand?"  
The Soldier cupped his hand over the RED's shoulder, saying as he did, "Thanks. I'd have been gone if it wasn't for you." They were interrupted by a yell from above. The Sniper was waving, and the two quickly scrambled up the cliff and into the van. Now their team was five men. 

After days of driving, killing zombies, and looking, they found where one of Spy's old teammates had perished. The Demoman's grenade launcher and hat were gathered and placed in a pile, as the five paid their respects. He was a good fighter, and he would be missed.  
Nearby, they found a lone RED Engineer, camped with his dispenser and sentry gun, surrounded by zombies. His sentry was on its last leg, even as they watched it sparked and shut down. The Soldier rushed forwards, performing a desperate rocket jump. Survivors had to stick together, and he wasn't going to let the zombies win. He landed, skewering a zombie through the head, then a second one through the chest. Scout shot his pistol, mowing down zombies everywhere he ran, and Sniper shot arrows through each of the zombie's heads.  
A single corpse launched itself at the Engineer, moaning, fingers outstretched, but before it could reach the RED member, the Spy shot it through the heart, decloaking as he did so. The corpse slid across the ground, frozen in that one pose, before it slid to a stop. The Spy stepped back as its arm passed his ankle, barely missing him.  
Or not. The corpse's fingers had sliced through his flesh, a tiny bit of blood seeping from the wound. It was enough to infect him, and an expression of shock and horror crossed his face as he began to rot, thousands of times the normal speed, rising from his ankle onwards.  
He turned to the man beside him, and passed him the pocket watch that had kept him safe as zombies passed for months. "Engie, get out. I don't want you to die, get the rest of our mismatched team and go." As the rotting passed his shoulders, his chest, his neck, he pulled out the revolver, the same one he had grasped all those months ago.  
This time he had no problem pulling the trigger, as he whispered a single word. "Five."


End file.
